Roguish, rough and ready, Russ is a rake who refuses to be tamed. But even for a master like him, there comes a time when loving 'em and leaving 'em loses a lot of its charm.
Now, this wild child is looking for someone with a little more staying power, and a cutie with a pinch of cardamom and clove in his cappuccino is about to change Russ's life for keeps.Publisher's note: A previous version of this title was published under the title "Sugar Man". It has been reworked and rewritten for this release.

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

Calen. Russ saw him first in a gay-friendly café in the middle of downtown, where times were always good and the men were -- often -- pretty. Russ had taken up a casual seat by the window where he could see the beauties and cuties stream in and out while he sipped at his coffee. Perfectly positioned to see Calen walk into his life, though he didn’t know it yet.
The man, a stranger to Russ, stood calmly in the middle of a milling crowd around the bar and refilled his mug at the speed he damn well pleased. Rather than jostle and jeer at him, the crowd parted, seemingly without realizing they did so. Quiet, strong, with no need to make a show about it, yet so commanding a presence that Russ couldn’t look away. He even put down his mug to watch, and that was serious business.
He had a reason: wanting to see how the man took his coffee.
During the course of his many, dear God was it many, too many hookups, Russ had decided one could tell a lot about a man by the coffee he preferred. Of course, he knew that to be just his point of view and, ergo, bullshit to the rest of the world, but as a philosophy it worked for him. On top of that, as a shaving of chocolate would garnish whipped cream, his system almost never steered him wrong.
Black coffee men: straight-up and straightforward. No time for creamer or sugar or crap like that. In bed, they wanted it hot and hard and fast. Nice, when Russ was in the mood for it, but not tonight. He’d passed by one spoken and one unspoken offer so far. He wanted something a little slower.
Coffee with cream: non-fat, half-and-half, creamer, whatever. Smooth, but dark and sometimes bitter too. Around here, they favored Lennon sunglasses and affecting the demeanor of a man as cool as cool could be. Whatever you want, man, that’s fine, but don’t expect me to call you in the morning.
Not tonight. Russ wanted something a little sweeter.
Sweetened coffee: sugar men, now they were sweet. Cuddlers, handholders, enthusiastic and yielding and no challenge at all -- for Russ, at least in his present mood.
Russ twitched his shoulders, irritable, telling himself he was far too picky for a man who’d circled the block often enough to wear grooves into the pavement. He’d enjoyed those travels, too, but now... with every year, it seemed to grow harder to trudge that familiar walk, the men less tempting and the mornings-after all the emptier.
Black coffee, coffee with cream, coffee with sugar... he’d been there and done that, and now that he thought he’d like something a little longer-lasting than a latte, well, when it came to this joint and his method he might just be out of luck.
And then there was this man, who stood with the calm confidence that mountains would move before he did when he had his mind set on something. He wore a bookstore employee nametag that Russ craned his neck to read. Calen. A good name, with a sort of spice to it that enticed the senses.
Call him crazy, but Russ was invested -- really invested -- in seeing how this man took his coffee.
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This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

I hate R & R. Who needs it? I sure as shit don't. Not just because I've had a tech upgrade, thanks to the Allied Planets' super secret Super-Cop initiative, but because seriously, what does one do on R & R anyway? Rest and relaxation? The most relaxing thing for me to do is bust the asses, noses, clavicles, sternums, necks, spines -- well, you get the idea -- of scum-bucket criminals. And I never rest from relaxing. I don't want R & R. I don't need it. I'm a freaking Super-Cop, for Otyn's sake.
Even before my tech implants I didn't need it. R & R is for the weak, the pathetic. The lazy. But what's a tech-improved AP Enforcer to do when her commander orders her -- orders her -- to take a leave of absence? "You're close to burn out," he says. "You need some down time," he says.
I'll tell you what she does. She heads to Spaceport Adana. 'Cause honestly, you won't find a greater horde of scum-bucket criminals in one place anywhere else in IAC space -- or any other space, for that matter. If it's dodgy, chances are it's at 'Port Adana. What better destination for unwanted R & R than a veritable cesspit of crooks?
A mere two steps into said cesspit and my mouth began to water and my tech began to zing. By Otyn. The place was a smorgasbord.
Striding through the crowded docking level, I catalogued everything I saw. Known slave traders, infamous spice dealers, wanted WMD suppliers, hell, even an IAC-listed terrorist moved freely about their nefarious business, unaware a tech-enhanced AP Enforcer walked amongst them.
My mouth watered some more. I was going to have a blast. Why hadn't I taken R & R be --
I snapped straight, scanning the horde around me.
One of the upgrades the AP white-coats had so thoughtfully installed in me allowed my tech to detect battle class droids and cyborgs of any design, make and model. That upgrade -- millions of microscopic tiox nanobots implanted in my cerebral cortex -- now fired into pulsing life. Somewhere on the thoroughfare was a Q-42 battle droid, a highly efficient, volatile, and superseded war-class android.
I searched the teeming masses again, tuning my tech into the Q-42's energy emission. Q-42s were decommissioned by the IAC for a reason. They were dangerous. If one walked 'Port Adana, it was illegally activated and would need to be shut down.
My right hand automatically reached for my blaster before I remembered the spaceport's strict boarding rules -- no energy weapons in public places. I wriggled my fingers and forced calm into my muscles. No matter. It would be more fun taking out the droid barehanded.
Grinning, I scanned the crowd once again, zeroing my gaze in on a giant of a man dressed in combat fatigues not eight feet away. Bingo.
The Q-42 shoved his, err, that should be its, way through the packed thoroughfare and I followed. Eagerly.
As if I wouldn't.
Five minutes on 'Port Adana and already I was enjoying my R & R. The Q-42 strode through the docking level, pushing people out of its way, its pace quickening. I narrowed my eyes, my stare locked on its towering frame. It seemed to be trying to elude something. You?
The thought had merit. Q-42s were still advanced tech. It was entirely possible a Q-42 operating in human stealth mode -- as this one was -- could detect the tiox-emissions of my own tech. Possible and, if the case, kinda fun. It would make bringing the battle droid down more challenging. I lengthened my stride, dodging more than one scum-bucket, never taking my eyes off the droid.
Until the most gorgeous man I've ever seen crossed my line of sight, dressed in nothing but skintight black leather pants and a slave collar, his pitch black hair tumbling around his shoulders in a tousled mess, his bronzed skin gleaming under the thoroughfare's harsh lights, his muscles rippling with latent strength. Oh, dear gods, he's delicious.
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"La Contessa Italia-Pucci!" Marcel Mannaro grinned at his brother, Luc. Grin wasn't the right word. Lasciviously leered was closer. "We are moving up in the world. Haven't had a real title in a couple of years. Remember that nymphomaniac duke's daughter?" It had been the daughter who was the nympho, not her stiff-backed father, but she'd been a very happy customer.
"How could I forget?" Luc replied. "Oh, and by the way, La Contessa comes recommended by your Mademoiselle Leroux."
"Claire sent her?"
Now it was Luc's turn to grin. "She did indeed."
Marcel chuckled, and why not? It bucked up a wolf's ego to hear his sexual prowess had been lauded by a happy customer. Not that many clients left L'Auberge Pipistrelli unsatisfied. Keeping customers very, very happy was the specialty of the house.
"Heard any more from that Mademoiselle Vargas?" Marcel asked, not even looking up from the computer screen.
Luc was tempted to snort, but that was so human, and he was feeling rather lupine after a night running over the hills. A month before on the first night of the full moon the said Mademoiselle Elaine Vargas had rescued him, Luc Mannaro, of the ancient and noble line of lupo mannaro, from a bear trap.
Elaine had been magnificent in bed, and his heart knew they were mated in the way of wolves, but he hadn't quite come to terms with the fact she was mere loup garou and could shift at will. At the time he'd been most grateful she could, as neither he nor Marcel could have opened that damn trap with their paws, but he'd been soul searching since she went home. Was she really more powerful than he was? If so, should he let that matter? And the final quandary, was he ready to be mated?
Not getting anything more than a brief e-mail a few days after she left hadn't helped his uncertainty. Maybe it was about time he had another woman to help clear his mind.
"If I might intrude on your dirty thoughts?"
Damn Marcel! Luc raised his eyebrows. "Yes?"
"There's a car coming up the drive."
It could get here on its own couldn't it? "And? Have we started meeting guests with a guard of honor?"
"Getting tense, brother? You need a good screw," Marcel added, totally unnecessarily.
"We don't have any more guests arriving until tomorrow. It could be Jardon delivering this week's cheese and Paul just took off."
"You see to him then."
"You deal with him. I don't know what you ordered." He did if he bothered to look in the computer but what the heck? Luc shrugged. Might be just the distraction he was looking for. It was a definite distraction, just not in that way.
He glanced as the car pulled into the courtyard. A small budget car, not the sort of vehicle that usually pulled up at their front door. Some tourist driven up from Nice perhaps. It happened sometimes. A while back they'd even had two students mistake them for a youth hostel.
But this driver seemed to know where they were going. They parked neatly on the far side of the front door and killed the engine before opening the door.
One glimpse of the driver and Luc was racing into the hall and toward the front door, yelling over his shoulder to Marcel to come quick. "It's Maria Lucia!"
The tall, dark-haired woman leaned against the car, one ankle crossed over the other. "Hello, brother," she said, her mouth twitching. "I thought I'd drop by and see..."
He didn't wait to hear what she was coming to see, just grabbed her by the waist, twirled her around like he used to when they were children and kissed her. "My God, Lucia," he said as he set her back on her feet. "Ever thought of letting us know you were coming?"
She grinned. "I thought about it, but decided not to bother. Easier to drive on down. And you know better. No one's called me Lucia since I was a girl. I'm Maria."
"Mother of all Wolves!" Luc said, and hugged and kissed her again. "You don't know how glad I am to see you."
She tilted her head to one side. "It's good to be back. Where's Marcel?"
"Here!"
She ran toward Marcel. Luc told himself not to be jealous. Hadn't he seen her first? "So, you came back at last," Marcel said.
"At last?" Maria repeated, arching her eyebrows in the way Luc remembered so well. "I came back when it suited. I had things to take care of." Marcel had better go easy or she'd remind them how they sent her away. "Did you both miss me?" she asked, looking from one to the other and grinning. No, smirking!
She was back hugging Luc, then both of them at once before she caught sight of Paul crossing the courtyard, and he got a hug.
"I hope they promoted you from prep and washing dishes," she said.
"Oh, yes, I'm breakfast chef now," Paul replied, returning her hug and grinning at her.
"Wonderful! Is Chef Georges still holding the fort in the evenings?"
"Of course," Luc replied.
"Although he's still talking about retiring," Marcel added.
Damn. His brother should keep his mouth shut. Better not let Paul get ideas. Not for a few years anyway.
"Great," Maria said. "Now tell me," she went on, looking from him to Marcel. "Are the roses out on Maman's patio?"
They were, and while Paul offered to carry her cases to her old rooms and Marcel went off to scurry up coffee, Luc took her through the building and out to the private patio that overlooked the valley.
Maria didn't settle, but paced from one side to the other, smelling the roses and looking out at the view and up at the building as if to reassure herself it was still there and she really was back.
Damn! Had they done the wrong thing sending her away? What else could they have done? Marcel and he had talked this over umpteen times and both had agreed, she could not be allowed to continue the affair with that damn loup garou. At least he was no longer in the area.
Maria took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was back. For better or worse she was back home. Now, how to break the news to her brothers as to exactly why she'd come home.
Later.
Might as well enjoy being the welcomed ewe lamb for a few hours before she set their nice ordered world on end.http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1410

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Kane's enormous paws glided over the snow. He raced as fast as he could, then deliberately slid across the ice, a kittenish game that he wouldn't have played in the company of other Prowleryns.
Out here, no one was around to see him.
Or talk to him.
Or hunt with him.
But at least here he was his own master, unfettered by the restrictions of tribal life and the prejudices of his father's people. When he wanted to live like a Prowleryn, he came out here to indulge his shapeshifter nature alone.
Prowleryns -- an ancient race of cat shifters -- generally preferred a close-knit family setting. Kane's solitary lifestyle was only one of many traits that set him apart from others of his kind.
Most members of his tribe refused to let him forget just how different he was compared to them. The human mates some of the males had taken were treated with more value than Kane. What respect he got, he fought hard for.
He'd spent the morning hunting and part of the afternoon building a new igloo. Even his thick pelt wasn't always enough to keep him comfortable in the frigid Alaskan winter. Sometimes on cold nights he wished he had a mate to snuggle with.
Now was the time for a little fun before darkness fell and he retired to his icy dwelling. He trotted through the snow then threw himself onto his back and rolled around, his eyes closed and loud purrs of pleasure rumbling in his chest.
Then his keen hearing picked up the sound of dogs barking in the distance. He stood abruptly, his four strong legs braced apart and his ears straining.
Humans. The last thing he needed at this moment was to be seen by one of them. Not that he didn't like humans. He actually felt more comfortable in their company than with Prowleryns. Amidst the barking dogs he heard a piercing scream, the voice distinctly female. That didn't sound good.
His better judgment told him to head home and avoid any possible contact with humans while in his cat form, yet something in the woman's scream prompted him to take a closer look. It wasn't in his nature to avoid people in trouble, no matter what their species. Kane's swift yet stealthy gait and pale gray pelt were excellent camouflage, so if he was careful he had little chance of being seen.
He continued in the direction of the scream. The dogs' barking faded until he scarcely heard it and he slowed his pace. Most likely the woman had gone with them, no doubt on the back of a sled pulled by her furred slaves. He was about to turn back when in the distance he noticed what appeared to be a person lying in the snow. He caught the scent of her perfume on the freezing wind.
No more humans were in sight, nor did he see or smell any others.
Throughout the centuries humans had killed many of his kind, nearly driving them to extinction. Because of this as well as the limited number of female Prowleryns, they had chosen to mate with human females in an attempt to increase their numbers. Living among humans, he had learned that not all were wicked. At times he had seen more evil among his own kind than he had among humans.
He knew he couldn't leave this woman to certain death in the wilderness of Alaska. Again he sniffed the air and his gaze swept the area, making certain no other humans lurked among the snowdrifts. He quickened his pace and approached the woman. She pushed herself onto her hands and knees.
Lovely brown eyes fixed upon him and widened. She drew a sharp breath and trembled visibly, probably as much from fear as from the cold. Kane stood still, his gaze locked on hers, before she collapsed face first in the snow.
Surely he hadn't frightened her that much? Most likely she'd hurt herself falling out of the sled, for he had no doubt that's what had happened. Something told him she was new to this rough climate.
He moved closer and paused, breathing deeply as he shifted to a form somewhere between cat and man. Still covered in his thick pelt but moving on two legs instead of four, he squatted near her and checked the pulse in her neck. It was strong and steady. She didn't appear to have any broken bones, but he couldn't be sure until he examined her more closely. First he needed to get her someplace warm. Kane lifted her in his arms and headed back to his igloo.
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This delightful, flavorful short erotic romance has everything a reader could ask for: mouth-watering food scenes that seem to have slipped out of the pages of the yummiest gourmet magazine, two totally crave-able heroes.

The writing sweeps you into the story and keeps you engaged with non-stop action, and scorching hot sex! The main characters come to life with their witty dialog and the passion that explodes between them.

Altah, Ruler of the Vampire Nation, must bond with her werewolf guardian to seal the pact between their races. The best warriors from each werewolf family do battle for the right to serve the woman who holds the greatest power in the world -- but no one, not even the Ruler of Vampires, can tame true alpha werewolves.This collection contains the previously released novellas Carnal Surrender, Carnal Indulgence, Carnal Obedience, and Carnal Discipline.

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

Altah's heart beat more wildly than the drums that accompanied the brutal fights underway in the courtyard of her palace. All afternoon the finest Werewolf warriors from families throughout the world had been tearing each other bloody with the hope of earning their place as her guardian.

The competition was an old custom. Altah considered it cruel and archaic, yet Werewolves more than any race clung to the past. They accepted technology only to keep their place in an ever-advancing world, yet they still hunted with tooth and claw. They procreated like wild beasts, without the careful scientific intervention that made Vampires superior to every other species on the planet.

In spite of their many faults, Wolves remained her people's closest allies and continued to serve them well. Now it was part of Altah's duty to see that the relations between Vampires and Wolves remained intact.

When her mother died two weeks ago, Altah had taken her place as Ruler of the Vampire Nation. Though not the most physically powerful species, Vampires' intelligence, wealth, and technological advancements made theirs the most powerful nation in the world. Like Werewolves, they lived for several centuries, yet unlike their canine cousins, Vampires required blood to fuel their regenerative powers.

Tradition stated that each Ruler accept a Werewolf guardian to remain by her side until death claimed one of them. Their bond, sealed through mating, was among the strongest in the world.

Vampire Rulers rarely married and created heirs through artificial insemination with selected donors to ensure an untainted bloodline. Though marriage between a Vampire Ruler and a Werewolf was not allowed, their relationship with their guardian often turned to love. Over the centuries, many feverish affairs had heated the palace's walls. Altah believed her mother's love for her Werewolf had hastened her death. When her guardian passed on, the old Ruler had followed less than a month later.

Altah had never understood the attraction. To her, Werewolves were arrogant, disrespectful and filthy. Sure they had a certain physical appeal and she wasn't exactly opposed to mating with her new guardian, whoever he might be, but to fall in love? The chances of Vampires giving up blood drinking were better.

Below, two pairs of Werewolves grunted, growled, and tore at each other with fangs and claws. Blood sprayed the white stone ground. A vast crowd filled the courtyard. Wealthy spectators, both Vampire and Werewolf, had the best seats on the colonnade. Poorer folk packed in as best they could along the walls while armed guards stood watch. Everyone booed and cheered throughout the fight.

Almost simultaneously, two of the Werewolves defeated their opponents, knocking them bleeding and unconscious to the ground. Altah stared with great interest at the winners, for these two would fight for a place at her side.

Both tall and well-formed, they were of similar height and weight. One was black-haired, the other blond and both had eyes of such vivid blue that Altah could see them clearly from her balcony. Both wore their beast shape for the fight. Though crude, the beast form was nevertheless intriguing. They stood on two legs, like men, but their naked bodies were covered with an animal-like pelt, one blond, the other black. Elongated ears, thick fangs and curved claws on their hands and feet completed their bestial features.

Once the defeated Wolves' bodies were dragged away, the referee -- a burly middle-aged Werewolf with a grayish-brown pelt -- signaled for the last fight to begin.

The two wolves didn't hesitate. They sprang at each other and their bodies locked with a slam that echoed through the courtyard. Their claws sank into each other's backs and dragged downward, leaving deep, bloody gashes from shoulders to buttocks. Savage fangs, far thicker than any Vampire's, ripped and gouged flesh.

Frenzied, the Werewolves fought as if rabid, lasting longer than any match yet.

As the battle raged on, Altah's belly clenched, her fists squeezed so tightly her fingers ached. Surely if they continued this brutal fight they'd kill each other. The onlookers had fallen silent, so only the growls and ragged breathing of the Werewolves sounded in the courtyard. They broke apart, circling one another, their eyes tinged red from fury and exertion, yet neither looked ready to surrender. Again their bodies locked and crashed to the ground. The blond landed atop the black-haired Wolf. With a mighty heave, the black-haired one reversed their positions. They rolled along the pavement, their powerful limbs squeezing one another while they bit and clawed.

Altah wasn't sure how much time passed before their movements slowed. Though completely exhausted, neither was willing to give up. At a motion from the referee, several Wolf guards armed with rifles approached the two warriors. It took several moments for the guards to pry them apart. They stood, panting and growling, their faces masks of pure rage.

Torn between disgust and arousal, Altah stared at the Werewolves.

"My Lady."

She turned to a young female messenger standing beside her holding a sealed note atop a gold tray. Immediately she knew it was from one of the Wolf leaders, for they were among the few left in the world who still used handwritten messages. Annoyed at the interruption, Altah snatched the note, broke the seal, and read.

If she were the fainting kind, she would have hit the floor from sheer excitement laced with fear. The message, signed by the leaders of the two families who had sent the blond and black-haired Wolves, suggested that she accept both as her guardians.

Altah drew a deep breath and released it slowly, once again staring at the Wolves who were still restrained by the soldiers. As far as physical appeal, both were magnificent representations of their race. Yet their excessive strength and stubbornness made them even more dangerous than normal Werewolves. If she agreed to accept them, she must mate with both to seal the traditional pact between their kind and hers.

Altah picked up the gold pen resting on the tray and willed her hand to remain steady as she wrote her consent on the message and resealed it.

Her heart throbbing so hard she thought it might leap through her chest, she waited. Though only moments passed before the messenger approached the referee, to Altah it seemed like hours.

The burly Wolf broke the seal, read the message quickly, then announced in a deep, rumbling voice, "By royal decree, it has been decided that Altah, Ruler of the Vampire Nation, shall claim an unprecedented two guardians. The Werewolves Rex and Kyros will be bonded to her this night. The battle for dominance is officially over."

Murmurs swept throughout the crowd and the Wolves, Rex and Kyros, ceased struggling. Their expressions changed from anger to shock then back to anger again. They no longer glared at each other, but turned their fierce gazes to Altah.

In spite of the fear winding through her, Altah wore her most regal expression and held each of their gazes in turn. No one, particularly such savage beasts, would intimidate the Ruler of the Vampire Nation. They were born to serve her and she would see that they never forgot it.

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

Temair curled, propped against the headboard of the giant bed in the chamber the Earth Mother had housed them in. Zevan, the newest and youngest of her Consorts, lay beside her, head snuggled in her lap, his customary look of wonder smoothed just slightly by his near sleep state. Dathan, her Rayne Consort, laid on her other side, one arm wrapped behind her, the other toying with Zevan's spiky hair. There was nothing sexual in his touch, not like if he'd been touching Miach.
No, Dathan -- and Miach, too, for that matter -- had adopted Zevan, treating him like a much cherished younger brother. And Zevan flourished under their attention. After a lifetime of abuse, twenty-one years deprived of any affection, her Aire Lord soaked up every kind word, every soft touch they sent his way. They were all happy to oblige him. Temair savored the sleek, cool silk of his skin, and spent as much time wrapped around him as possible. Dathan gifted the younger man with careless hugs, ruffled hair, and even the occasional kiss to the top of the head that were all the more meaningful because the Rayne Lord did it so absently.
Even Miach, who was by no stretch of the imagination cuddly, found subtle ways to care for Zevan. If Temair hadn't been hopelessly in love with her Fyre and Rayne Consorts already, their careful treatment of her wounded Aire Consort would have sealed the deal. Temair released a long sigh of contentment and Nuriel, her foster sister and fellow Princess, gave a low laugh from her nest on a chaise by the fyre.
"You are entirely too pleased with yourself, Temmie," the golden-blonde Princess commented softly. Even Nuriel, who was normally oblivious to the nuances of relationships, was reluctant to jar Zevan from his half-doze, to end the peaceful moment.
"Your turn will come, Ellie." The gruff tenor voice of her First Consort sent a curl of warmth through Temair's belly. He'd been gone since early morning, first practicing the Fyeria, the deadly beautiful dance-like martial art he excelled at, and then wandering the Earth Lands with Darmon, who was Miach's best friend and sparring partner, and the head of Temair's Royal Guard. Temair recognized the necessity of his absence, but that didn't make her miss him any less. She couldn't help but notice that Dathan's body seemed to relax further into the mattress, releasing an almost invisible tension, with Miach's return as well.
Nuriel wrinkled her nose at Miach and smiled adorably, though the smile didn't light up her eyes quite the way it had before they'd been attacked at the Aerie. "That's not reassuring, Lord Fyre," she murmured.
Miach passed a gentle hand over her hair, a gesture he'd never have even considered a month ago, and slid onto the bed. Temair suppressed a little smile when he carefully chose the side farthest from Dathan. Her poor Fyre Consort still wasn't exactly sure how to deal with the seductive, deceptively easy going Rayne Lord.
He hip-checked Zevan out of his way, crowding the younger man against Temair's side, and gathered as much of her into his arms as he could manage, considering how tangled up she was with her other Consorts.
"Things here are remarkably peaceful," he reported, directing his words to her, though they both knew Dathan and Zevan were listening just as intently. "The men seem to be cherished, even pampered."
Temair thought she detected a trace of disapproval in his voice.
"And everyone acts disgustingly cheerful." He shot a sardonic glance at Dathan, wisps of scarlet flame cutting the chaos-black of his eyes. "You should fit right in, Water Boy."
Dathan laughed at the implied insult and blew the Fyre Lord a kiss. Zevan choked back a snicker of his own, and Temair lay grinning like a fool, loving everything about her Consorts.http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1399

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Golden clouds surrounded her. Anarrae floated among the stars. Everything felt good, so light and free. Warmth filled her up like a cup. It all felt so good. The world quivered around the edges. She felt her body shake but didn't respond. Being so high and relaxed felt too good. She didn't want to go back to that world she had just left. It had been too loud and violent. Shots ricocheted around her head and she winced. Too loud. "Anarrae, love, don't leave me," someone whispered. "Please, stay with me. Hang on." Dodger? She opened her eyes and blinked at the bright lights. Blue eyes gazed at her. Not Dodger. She groaned and closed her eyes again only to be shaken. A throbbing started in her head and her stomach flipped. Ana tried push the person away, but her arms refused to move, like deadweight. She felt them but couldn't command them to do anything. Instead of panicking, she tried to fall asleep again. The golden clouds surrounded her, and this time she saw stars twinkling against a deep purple sky. Crystal blue rings appeared next as she floated higher.
"Anarrae!" Dodger's voice yelled at her from a distance. She turned her head, trying to spot him, only to see blue eyes staring at her, anger written in the dark sapphire depths. Why is he angry with me? she grumbled to herself.
"Wake up!" More shaking followed that command, and this time Ana thought she really was going to throw up. Her eyes flew open, and she rolled to the side only to fall to the floor. With a groan she pushed herself up and looked around. The pounding in her head made it difficult to focus. She wanted to return to her golden cloud world and drift.
"Ambassador, please do not yell at my patients!"
Ana looked up to find Dr. Titheniel, the Earth Elven doctor, glaring at someone and flicking stick-straight, mink-colored hair over her shoulder. Her lithe figure radiated agitation.
Ana sat up and saw a stranger sitting by the bed she'd just fallen from. Thick, wavy blond hair framed an angular face. Dark blue eyes turned to look at her, pinning her to the floor with their intensity. He seemed so familiar, but she couldn't place where she'd seen him before. The cargo bay. The ambassador. Ana scrambled up, only to feel lightheaded. Her knees gave out and she crumpled back to the floor. Strong arms circled her waist and hauled her up. Once on steady ground, she turned to thank the person, only to have her stomach rebel. In that moment, a chill descended over her and sweat beaded on her brow as she pushed the man away and retched all over the med deck. The world swam before her eyes and she passed out again.
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As empty as it was, the office was virtually crackling with his presence. He was a man of great energy, and the glimmering glow emanating from his chair told me it was all positive. It was clear who the Adonis who'd stopped to help me on the street really was. It also explained his absence from the office which was left unlocked and unattended. He had, I assumed, been in hot pursuit of the thug as part of a case. How exciting.
I couldn't help but nod in approval. Oh, to work for a man of action. This job opportunity was turning out to be very suitable indeed.
I closed the door and returned to the secretary's desk. In contrast to Mr. Verges, there was hardly any of the previous incumbent's presence left. She must have been an insipid creature not to have left any trace at all. The untidiness suggested that, while Mr. Verges himself kept a tidy office, he was a stranger to efficient office procedure, and in the void between secretaries, had helped himself to the files and not returned them to their proper place.
I hoped he would return soon. My feet, unused to wearing heels, throbbed pleadingly at me, so I took the secretary's seat and kicked them off. The chair was comfortable enough, and with growing interest, I considered closely what I hoped would be my new workspace. A modern plasma computer screen took up more than half of the available space. Next to it were three trays, each marked in felt pen. To be filed was filled with dozens of newspaper clippings. Correspondence to be typed was also full. Not surprisingly, given the situation, To be signed was empty.
From the correspondence tray, I picked up the sheath of shorthand notes written, I noticed, by Mr. Verges himself. I could tell by the firm masculine hand and the brightness of the symbols glimmering on the page. I deciphered the awkward shorthand and decided that, while I was here with nothing to do, I might as well get a feel for my future employer. To say I was confident this was the place for me would be an understatement. I was feeling very, very positive.
I gave my glasses, which I need for reading and close work, a quick clean, turned on the computer and tut-tutted when it was clear that the machine was not password protected. What was my predecessor thinking? No wonder she no longer occupied this chair. I opened the word processor and, after creating a folder to save my work, started typing.
After only a dozen reports and letters, it was clear to me that Mr. Verges was a diligent and resourceful investigator. He was meticulous in the manner in which he chased down small details that, even though on first glance appeared tangential to the main matter, allowed him to come to a compelling and sometimes surprising conclusion. He had been involved in all manner of investigations: fraud, infidelity, missing persons, murder, cold cases and investigating wrongful convictions. My respect and appreciation of him were growing with every sentence. I trusted he would not be offended by my interpretation of his shorthand, for in places I had to use my imagination.
As I typed, my good feelings regarding the absent Mr. Verges grew and blossomed into a warm sensation in my belly, extending to the juncture of my thighs. You may think this is atrocious hyperbole, for how could the typing of someone's indifferent shorthand result in thoughts most erotic? Well, that's hard to explain. Suffice to say that his shorthand (written in fine blue ink) glowed on the page as if the letters were the same as those that shone from the one ring when the gray wizard extracted it from the fire. The only difference was that Mr. Verges' script glowed white and not gold, making it a tad difficult to read against the white of the notepaper.
He wrote with a certain poetry too, with a lively and catchy rhythm, and as the glowing symbols translated into words inside my head imbued with the honeyed tone of his voice, the warmth of his prose traveled to my belly and made my center tingle.
Forty blissful minutes later I had finished the letters and notes and had printed them out. Luckily the printer was filled with blank letterhead, for I had no key to the stationery cupboard that stood beside the three-drawer filing cabinet occupying the corner of the room.
I looked at the press clippings and decided their untidiness offended my sense of order enough to do something about them. I tried the top drawer of the filing cabinet marked X and again smiled at my future employer's sense of humor, for the clippings involved themselves with sightings of ghosts, demons, sasquatch and yeti-type creatures, unexplained deaths and supposed miracles. The drawer opened. The drawers marked Accounts and Case Files were locked. I was relieved. At least there was some office security, although I was still unhappy about the computer.
The top drawer was quite full. I filed the clippings in the appropriate folders and closed the drawer. There was a coffee pot behind my desk so I made a cup of coffee, thinking that it was the least reward I could expect after doing a day's work in an afternoon.
As I drank, I thought about Mr. Verges, and those sultry sensations returned with a vengeance. Had I been in the privacy of my bedroom, I certainly would have done something about it. As I wasn't in my fortress of autoeroticism, I just had to put up with the delightfully frustrating feelings of unfulfilled sexual arousal.
I forced my thoughts away from matters sexual to something less provocative; those intriguing press clippings. The letters I had typed were all down-to-earth, one might say prosaic, cases of human frailty and mundane evil. The clippings, however, suggested my future employer had a more supernatural side to his nature, and that interested me a lot.
I heard voices in the corridor and the door swung open. Two men entered, one tall and well-built and the other short and weedy. They were, it seemed, at the tail end of a one-sided discussion.
"Ah, come on, what d'ya say?" the short, weedy one whined.
Those white doves flocked together again in my belly as I recognized the blinding aura of the Adonis from the street. I'd been right. He was my new employer, Mr. Adam Verges.
"I said no yesterday and I say no today," he replied in a thickly toned voice that sent warm tendrils of lust coursing through my veins. Now I'd had a good look at it, my first impressions were mostly confirmed. His aura was one of power and innate goodness, dazzling me with its brilliance. It was not a completely pure mantle, for within its glorious brightness pale shades of imperfection ebbed and flowed like beautiful strands of sea life decorating a coral reef. For all that, it was the most perfect aura I had ever seen. Could I possibly measure up? My heart skipped and those doves turned back to pterodactyls and took flight.
The short man stopped in his tracks when he saw me and his formerly pleading face transformed into the countenance of a lascivious Lothario. "Ah, the sweet-voiced Colleen," he greeted me.
Mr. Verges shot me a glance and his gorgeous gray-blue eyes widened in a flash of recognition. Apart from that, he didn't miss a beat as he took in my occupancy of the secretary's chair, the steamy coffeepot behind me, the tidy desk now devoid of files, the empty in-tray and the full out-tray. In mid-stride he picked up the typed correspondence and, without interrupting his step, proceeded to his office door. He opened it and said over his shoulder, "There's nothing more to be said, Joey. Close the door when you leave." He cleared his throat. "Colleen. Bring your steno pad. I have some letters I want sent out today."
I gave his broad back a brisk, efficient smile. "Of course, Mr. Verges."
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